


language corrupts thought (thought corrupts language)

by KeepCalmLoveSeverus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Natasha Romanov, F/F, Fluff, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepCalmLoveSeverus/pseuds/KeepCalmLoveSeverus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy Lewis is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. This seems especially ironic to Natasha, since she's Russian, and not usually prone to flourishing turns of phrase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. nat's pov

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amusewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/gifts).



> In case you don't know the reference and don't feel like googling it, Winston Churchill said that Russia was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.
> 
> This was encouraged by amusewithaview
> 
> I would like to preface this by saying I am not asexual. I do not intend for this to be an asexuality fic so much as Natasha's sexuality is incidental to the relationship -- which is the way it should be. Not all of us queers have angst ridden lives that begin and end with our queerness.

Darcy Lewis is outside the realm of Natasha's ability to categorize -- an ability, she would like to add, that has saved her life many times and that her job centers around and relies upon. Darcy is brash and outspoken and has no secrets, but she isn't bitter and she seems to have very few insecurities. Natasha has never met anyone like her.

Natasha avoids her for quite some time, which is interestingly easy enough when they both live in the tower. However, when their paths do cross, Darcy always smiles, and she never cringes away from the menacing aura Natasha makes sure to project -- an aura of poorly restrained violence, of blood stained teeth, of all the things the Red Room trained her to be that she has accepted as parts of herself.

Darcy sees none of it, and she is apparently cavalierly fearless. She just smiles and says, "Hey, Nat!"

Every. Time. They. Meet.

Like it's nothing. Like Natasha hasn't crushed others under her heel for less than daring to presume to use her name so freely.

* * *

She wishes she could say it all makes sense when she finds out Darcy is apparently friends with Clint, but that isn't the case. She would like to assume that Clint has, in some misguided attempt to make her friends for her, spilled all the dirt on Natasha Romanoff. She knows better, of course. She trusts Clint. She would like to say that Darcy must be like Clint, but she knows that isn't true either. Clint had nearly pissed himself the first time they met, and she wasn't even trying to actively intimidate him like she has been Darcy. Not to mention Clint's much more damaged than he lets on, and isn't as good at faking it as he thinks.

So that explanation is out on its ear.

It takes Natasha spying on an interaction between Darcy and Bruce to realize that _that's just how Darcy is._ Completely oblivious to any threats because she literally _gives no fucks._

Natasha wonders if the feeling slowly blossoming in her chest is jealousy.

She can barely look at Bruce without feeling a cold sweat break out at the base of her neck, but she fakes cool disdain so well no one can tell, and here this... this _absolutely ordinary human_ is associating with the man like he's a mouse!

It's infuriating.

It's fascinating.

* * *

Natasha can't pull away, after that, and she and Darcy become some sort of friends. Acquaintances. Natasha doesn't know. Her only relationships with other women have tended to be antagonistic, competitive. Friendships weren't encouraged in the Red Room. Very few of her missions have been anything but competing with other women to be the first to seduce this man or that. Even her relationship with Pepper, now, is more of a grudgingly respectful acquaintance than anything. Pepper, for being fooled by the Widow when she usually has such clear insight into other's motives, and Natasha, for Pepper being able to handle Tony for as long as she has. After a week, Natasha was ready to strangle the man.

This thing with Darcy...

It's different. That's all she knows. She doesn't acknowledge the warmth in her stomach when they squabble over what movie to watch, or which supervillain is more cliched. It's not jealousy, she knows now, but beyond that she doesn't question it. Much.

* * *

They're sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table to let their newly painted nails dry, when it happens.

It's an ordinary day. No calls to assemble, nothing exploding three blocks away, no missions. She and Darcy have been getting to the point where Natasha's not faking her smiles or chuckles anymore, where she feels safe enough to unwind herself a bit, like a snail peeking its head out of its shell warily. (She deliberately doesn't think about how it took so much longer for her to get to this point with Clint.) They're relaxing. Bantering. Darcy is painting yellow smiley faces on Natasha's nails. Natasha is painstakingly designing yellow sunflowers on Darcy's -- Darcy reminds her of that, of a garden in bloom, of flowers coming to life and turning their faces to the sun. But if Darcy's the sun, does that make Natasha the flower?

She's peeking at Darcy out of the corner of her eye, and Darcy happens to look up, and they make eye contact. It's not the first time it's happened. Natasha doesn't understand why that warmth grows in her stomach when Darcy's eyes soften and her lips quirk into a silly smile.

"Dude, you know your eyes are the coolest, right? Like, one second they're green and awesome, and then you move and the light sparkles in them and they turn blue, it's crazy. I'm so jealous, my eyes are just a simple blue, they don't do anything cool. You know I had a cat once with one blue eye and one green eye?"

She keeps talking, but Natasha is sitting there, trying to push down the blush that's slowly starting to dust her cheeks and not understanding why she can't -- the Red Room trained all its operatives to discard such obvious biological tells, she's been doing it for a very long time, this should be no different. 

It's just... no one has ever complimented an aspect of her that hadn't been groomed by the Red Room. Her body, surgically altered. Her hair, dyed before every mission. Her attitude, constructed by handlers time after time. Perhaps her eyes are the only thing the Red Room couldn't manage to tamper with, and they're the only thing she's never once been complimented on. The only part of her that is truly Natasha. 

She can hear her heart whooshing in her ears, can't make it stop, which is also worrying. And that damn warmth is still there, in her stomach, her chest, her cheeks. She's never been interested in sex beyond what information it could get her, beyond the purpose it served, but right now she wonders if the feeling in her chest is some other kind of desire.

A defect. Natasha worries she's becoming soft, she knew she shouldn't have started whatever this stupid little dance has been with Darcy. But now that she's entered the dance floor, she finds she can't convince herself to stop going through the moves. Not when Darcy has never been afraid of her. Not when Darcy actually makes her feel like a person, rather than a Red Room construct.

Not when Darcy has stopped talking and is staring at her, head cocked like a curious spaniel, eyes gleaming like a troublesome kitten.

Not when Darcy is leaning forward slowly, so slowly Natasha swears there's some sort of magic invading the room, slowing time, but her heart is racing, galloping, telling her exactly what's going to happen.

And all the while, her cheeks are still on fire.

She doesn't move. Stills, in fact, to the point where she's barely breathing. 

Darcy leans in, gently pressing their lips together in a closed, chaste kiss. Natasha can feel the air move as Darcy's eyelids flutter shut.

Natasha's eyes drift shut against her will, too.

It's a simple kiss. The innocence of it is, perhaps, the most disarming part. They could be children, for all the sexual intent there is behind the small meeting of plush lips.

Natasha finds she likes it, this innocent expression of affection.

She still feels the need to clarify, once Darcy pulls back and opens her eyes, "I'm not interested in sex. I'll do it, but it doesn't mean anything to me."

Darcy's smile is like a pure jolt of sunshine, and Natasha wishes she could turn her face away from it, but she _can't_ , she truly _is_ the flower here, there's no escaping that fact.

She's not sure she wants to.

"If I wanted sex, I could walk out onto the street, flash some cleavage and have six dozen people swarm in under ten minutes. I know -- Jane did the calculations one night when she was drunk. Although I'm not sure I trust her drunk science. Anyway, the point is that I'm not interested in your body, Nat. Even if it _is_ amazing. I'm interested in the person inside the body, who will sit and listen to me talk long after I know my voice must have started to get annoying. The person who watches black and white movies and dissects just how gross the male leads are, even if they're cute." She pauses for a breath, and Nat feels her own catch and rattle in her lungs. "I would occasionally enjoy permission to cuddle your boobs though. Because they're really nice and look like they would make the best pillows ever. And I wanna warn you that I like being petted like a cat, so I will expect you to play with my hair while this cuddling is happening. And --"

Natasha cuts her off with a single, still wet fingernail to the lips. She smiles shyly, real shyness, not the manufactured facsimile the Red Room had taught her to display.

"Deal."

She's either making the best, or worst, decision of her life.

 For someone's whose survival depends on being 100% sure of something, Natasha cares a surprisingly little amount.


	2. darcy's pov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is surprisingly easy for Darcy to read. This is especially surprising for Darcy, who's never been accused of being very perceptive. And it's Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, obviously, Darcy's pov of the first one shot or drabble or whatever you wanna call it. idk at this point.
> 
> hopefully it adds to the story instead of detracting. lemme know :)

Natasha Romanoff is, for all intents and purposes, exactly the kind of woman Darcy used to want to grow up to be. Confident, _competent_ , and devastatingly attractive in a catsuit. 

Darcy feels that she, herself, has only the confident part down. And that's okay with her.

Because, see, she's realized that perhaps Natasha isn't as confident as she acts, and that the competence is all a cover up for feeling adrift in the big mean world, and Darcy can sympathize with all of that. It's basically her high school experience in a nutshell.

It's just surprising, because it's _Natasha_. The Black Widow, Red Death, etc. etc. Darcy's not impressed. 

Well, yeah she is, but she isn't _intimidated_.

Its not like Nat is giving off big bambi eye and signals saying she's vulnerable and lonely, oh no. If anything it's the exact opposite. Every time she and Darcy cross paths, it's like the competence meter gets cranked up to overdrive. Which Darcy finds flattering, like she could ever be a threat to the Black Widow, yeah right. Just to prove she's not trying to be a threat or anything that might end up with her being garroted by her own intestines, Darcy always makes sure to give Natasha a cheerful smile and a, "Hey, Nat!" with a little finger wave.

After all, she's not _afraid_ of Natasha, but she _does_ respect just how powerful the other woman is.

* * *

Becoming friends with Clint is, in Darcy's opinion, easier than convincing a stray dog to come into the house for dinner. After all, she only had to order the pizza, and there he was all of a sudden, being friendly and stealing the slices with the most olives on them. Bastard. At least with a stray dog she'd have actually intended to share the meal.

Clint's cool, though, and for all he's apparently another ultra-competent mercenary, he doesn't ping Darcy's radar like Natasha does. He doesn't stir up stupid tingles in her toes or make her wanna smile when she thinks about him.

Unless she's remembering something particularly idiotic that he did. That always makes her laugh. It's just not the same as with Nat, anyway -- and she's had more conversations, at this point, with Clint! How fucked is that?

Not as fucked as the fact that Darcy initially friended Clint in an attempt to figure out what made Nat tick, since they're such good friends. She tries not to think about how pathetic that makes her in too much depth.

* * *

Then, almost out of nowhere, Nat starts talking to her -- like, actually talking, not just grunting or scowling or ordering her around. (Although the ordering around is kinda hot too. Darcy's an equal opportunity kind of gal -- anything is fantasy fodder at least once.) 

Anyway, Nat starts talking to her, and the more Darcy manages to worm under Nat's skin, the more she likes what she sees. Nat's real laugh (not the assassin/Widow seductress laugh, but _Nat's_ laugh) tends to end in snorting giggles when she thinks something's funny. It's adorable, and her sense of humor is unpredictable and unconventional, so Darcy never knows what she's going to say to trigger it -- not for lack of trying, though, because damn does she love that laugh. Nat's nose scrunches up and her eyes squint into tiny slits and she drops her chin forward a little and Darcy absolutely loves it.

The tingles in her fingers get stronger, and she starts having to consciously repress the urge to pull Nat into a hug or run her hands through Nat's hair or any of the million other little affectionate things she wants to do.

Darcy has never been the stronger person in a relationship (emotionally, not physically, she's not an idiot and she knows Nat could kick the Hulk's ass if she had to), since most people tend to see her breasts and think her IQ is an inverse correlation (take that, Psychology TA who tried to grope her one too many times!), but she likes it. She likes feeling like she's the only person Nat feels safe enough to show that dorky laugh to. (Even if she knows, rationally, that she's probably not. Clint, at the very least, is also on the list. Let a girl have her fantasies, please.) She finds she wants to be the person Nat comes to when she's having a bad day, the only one who can pull her out of a funk, and she's okay with that.

The only problem is getting Nat herself onboard. Darcy's good, but she can't do _all_ the work herself.

* * *

Her chance comes on a day like any other. They're chilling on the common floor, some stupid movie playing for background noise as they paint each other's nails. (Darcy's using it as an excuse to hold Nat's hand, _how sad is that_ , but at least the smiley faces she's painting look _adorable_.) She tries to be subtle about sneaking glances at Nat when she's not looking, but, duh, superspy, so she doesn't succeed, and when she catches Nat's gaze, she says the first thing she can think of, trying to derail the awkward a little bit.

"Dude, you know your eyes are the coolest, right? Like, one second they're green and awesome, and then you move and the light sparkles in them and they turn blue, it's crazy. I'm so jealous, my eyes are just a simple blue, they don't do anything cool. You know I had a cat once with one blue eye and one green eye?" 

_Way to go, Darce, real subtle. Why not just get on one knee and ask her out on a date while you're at it?_

Darcy's mouth continues to run independently of her mouth, so it's no surprise that she has to mentally rewind the conversation when she realizes that Nat is blushing. Not like _flaming red cheeks_ , just a light pink, but it's way more natural than anything else Darcy's ever seen on Nat, and she has a moment of _whoa holy shit did I break her?_

Nat's mouth falls open a little, almost without her permission it seems, and Darcy tilts her head a bit, looking Nat over speculatively. Well, it's possibly the only chance she's ever going to get. And if she's wrong, she doubts Nat will hold it against her, they can go back to just being gal pals, Darcy will be content with that.

Or so she tells herself. Hopefully she won't have to find out if it's true or not -- Darcy may not be in the habit of lying to herself very often, but that doesn't mean she doesn't remain willfully ignorant of certain things. Everyone's entitled to their own defense mechanisms, right?

Anyway.

She takes a deep breath, steels her nerves, and slowly leans towards Nat, trying to make her body language as casual and non-threatening as possible. God only knows where all the woman has knives shoved, and Darcy doesn't want her liver to be the one that discovers exactly where. 

When it doesn't seem like Nat's going to pull away or shriek in disgust, Darcy moves a bit faster, and (of course, because she's a fucking nerd and can't do anything right) overestimates the distance between their faces, so that when their lips actually make contact, it's less of a kiss and more of a childish _smoosh_ of lips. Not that Darcy minds, because this close, she can smell Nat's shampoo with amazing clarity, and feel how soft Nat's skin is (softer than it looks, if you can believe that), and the sensory overload is overwhelming enough that she shuts her eyes and doesn't really care to deepen the kiss any. 

After what seems an eternity, Darcy leans back, dizzy with the smell of Natasha still in her nostrils. She opens her eyes as Nat says, "I'm not interested in sex. I'll do it, but it doesn't mean anything to me."

Well.

That's not, like, a deal breaker, but damn. Darcy has been looking forward to eating Nat out till she cries.

With a mental shrug and what she hopes is a reassuring smile, Darcy decides it doesn't matter so much. After all, "If I wanted sex, I could walk out onto the street, flash some cleavage and have six dozen people swarm in under ten minutes. I know -- Jane did the calculations one night when she was drunk. Although I'm not sure I trust her drunk science. Anyway, the point is that I'm not interested in your body, Nat. Even if it is amazing. I'm interested in the person inside the body, who will sit and listen to me talk long after I know my voice must have started to get annoying. The person who watches black and white movies and dissects just how gross the male leads are, even if they're cute." She pauses for a breath, trying to get everything out before she loses her nerve. Natasha, after all, is the one with all the power here. Still... Darcy wouldn't be Darcy if she didn't push the envelope as far as she could, and then some. "I would occasionally enjoy permission to cuddle your boobs though. Because they're really nice and look like they would make the best pillows ever. And I wanna warn you that I like being petted like a cat, so I will expect you to play with my hair while this cuddling is happening. And --"

The rest of her sentence gets muffled by the paint-covered finger holding her lips together, and damn Natasha really is some sort of ninja, _nobody_ can get Darcy's lips to stop moving once they've gained terminal velocity. (But she's really grateful for the interruption before she can mortally embarrass herself.

"Deal," comes the simple reply, and Darcy squeals, throwing herself into Natasha's arms for what she hopes is the first cuddle of many, with little regard for her personal safety or nail art integrity. (Luckily the paint is mostly dry at this point, and damn if those sunflowers aren't amazing, how is Nat _so good at everything???)_

Luckily, it looks like she'll get plenty of time to figure out the answer.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you liked, what you didn't, etc! And feel free to come squeal with me on tumblr: keepcalmloveseverus


End file.
